Leave me breathless
by conchepcion
Summary: Molly's ex-fiancé Tom Abbot is tying the knot to the beautiful woman Polly Pedretti. She doesn't have a problem with this, but everyone assumes she's not over Tom. To prove she is, she tells about her boyfriend Ian, who unfortunately doesn't exist, but wanting to keep up the deception she hires an 'escort' to accompany her to the wedding in Rome. Only it doesn't go as planned.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **I recently re-watched 'The Wedding Date', and found myself thinking 'fun'. Obviously the film struck a cord, and I am adding another WIP on my list. The chapters will be short and I predict a short story in all essence. Hopefully, or well, I'll try. There will be no beta, just me, so heads up. Hope you'll enjoy (?)

* * *

_Polly._ Molly. Brunette. _Brunette._ Staring at the images available to her on her laptop screen, with the curly haired Tom Abbot clutching his Polly, the half-Italian former model with the obscenely long legs that now worked as a biologist minimized her previous fear. The one fear she shared with Mary when she'd just heard of Tom's engagement after having spent a couple of months with 'the most amazing woman he'd ever met'; that this woman would be a copy of her.

Luckily the photographs certainly put an end to those thoughts, unluckily other thoughts started to flutter through her system, especially as the wedding invitation sat docile on her coffee table reminding her of her own non-existent love life. She was still very single, and somehow, this was a very bad thing according to their mutual set of friends, "You don't still have – _feelings_ – for him?" Despite her refusals, which came hurried and unrehearsed – no one believed her; as her being single made everyone think she was going to go into hysterics any time soon.

She considered not going, pretending that work was too much at an uproar, though she could feel her best friend Meena practically snort at that, "Honestly, it's dead people they can wait." But, the nonbelievers in her lack of distress went, "Oh, are you upset about him getting married?" They assumed her not going meant she wanted him back, which was why she ticked off 'yes' with a 'plus one'. But the news travelled fast, rather quicker than she'd assume when Tom's foreign number showed up on her phone, "Got yourself a boyfriend, then?" he said, sounding absolutely delighted, "Polly wants to hear all about him."

This was how she found herself with Mary Morstan, the only one she could properly commiserate with, and the only one who she knew wasn't invited to the wedding, besides the rest of the lot, but the only _sympathetic_ ear at least. "Obviously she wanted to hear all about _him_. She probably doesn't even want you to come," said Mary shaking her head, "So…I'm getting from your face that you lied."

"Yep," said Molly taking a large swallow of her wine, which Mary watched warily, unfortunately still breastfeeding Adelaide, "Told them I've been seeing someone for months."

"Have you?" said Mary mildly puzzled.

Molly settled her glass of wine on the table with a sigh, her fingers clutching firmly at the stem of the glass, "Ian."

"Ian?" Mary's bemusement reached new levels, "_Ian?"_

"First name that came to my head," said Molly giggling, "After that it became easier lying, even I started believing that Ian existed."

Mary gave her a sympathetic smile, "What are you going to do when they find out Ian's a fake?"

She averted Mary's eyes at that, bringing the glass quickly to her lips again, savouring the wine, as Mary's eyes narrowed, "Molly."

Putting down the empty glass, she looked at Mary, "I've – I've done something really, _really_ stupid."

It was amazing what some online shopping could get you; she'd only intended to buy a new jumper to subdue any urge of self-pity, which had been alarmingly high, but then again wine had been involved.

"How stupid?" said Mary.

Instead of a new jumper or any kitten-pattern socks, she'd bought 'a boyfriend' or well an _escort _was the term set by him, however, possibly commonly known as, "A prostitute!" said Mary with wide eyes, her voice a screech.

Her head was pounding already, the hangover appearing all-too soon, but it was already paid for – an alarming sum – a whooper – "_6000 pounds_!" exclaimed Mary horrified, who soon meant she'd been cheated, "This bloke didn't claim he was a _Prince_ or something?"

* * *

The flight had been dreadful, filled with various assortments of exuberantly drunk people, some of them blissfully unaware of her state of mind – her date – _Ian – _would be awaiting her when she landed. She had argued with Mary that she had to cancel, that St Bart's would need her, that someone, or something would happen, and she really didn't have to board that plane, but Mary had more or less shoved her towards the gate.

_Ian_ was meeting her when she landed, their correspondence had strictly taken place through email, despite his number being available for her to use. She'd barely managed to dial the number, before her nerves started to appear, pressing delete hurriedly instead, as she meant he was real. She didn't need a confirmation by hearing his voice.

Molly had seen photos after all – handsome, rugged, tall, like some male model plucked out from Vogue or Tatler, and obviously he'd have to be – at _that_ price. He'd informed her of the _other_ prices, the ones that were to be kept if she needed 'company' post-wedding, or pre-wedding, depending on her mood, but she'd been persistent in stating that there would be no _hanky-panky._

Not exactly_ those_ words, as she was at least giving him the idea that she was a serious woman who didn't have those particular _needs_ – _"You might require it."_ Those were his words, like she was in a fragile state, like she actually _did_ care that Tom was getting married, and she might have found herself guzzling down some champagne during the flight, but it was due to the mild turbulence that occurred, or at least that's what she repeatedly told herself mid-drink.

No, there were other worries really - if Ian looked at all like his photographs, and not like a middle-aged short man with glasses, but at this point she'd take anyone. She didn't care, she'd given up, as it was obvious that the only way she'd have a date was paying for one. When she'd first told Mary, the woman had gone on and on about setting her up with someone, but in the end, she gave way to the idea, "Maybe you'll learn something."

She couldn't exactly imagine what she'd learn from paying for someone to take her to a wedding, except that even love had a price tag. The whole thing was going to be an unmitigated disaster, and she was sure of it. But Molly kept her back straight, got her passport checked, picked up her luggage, and strode out to arrivals, her trolley held before her. She almost lost her nerve, eyes tearing trough the crowd of people, some waiting for their loved ones, other holding up signs, and she was slightly taken aback to see her name on one of the plaques. She stopped in her stride, taking in the sight of the short middle-aged man donning a suit. Perhaps this was Ian twenty years later, and perhaps, it only served her right, "Miss Hooper?" he said with a thick Italian accent, breaking her thread of thought.

"Ian?" she said hesitantly, blinking at him stupidly.

The man laughed in return, "No, no, miss, I am driver _Michele_. Take you to hotel – Mr Ian wait for you there."

"Oh," she said, _Thank God. _

It hadn't been a part of the plan, but she was relieved by it nonetheless, despite the suspense increasing on actually meeting the man. Michele however, talked non-stop, his speech a combination of Italian and English, forcing her to bring up her translator, but she kept up the conversation with him happily, concluding that if he had been her date, he wouldn't have at all been a dreadful one, as she spent the majority of the drive laughing.

"Bella, don't be sad! Mr Ian will be _magnifico_!" he said, when she turned silent, "Promise!" She only nodded her head, catching the sight of the glamorous looking hotel, which was reserved for all of the guests attending the wedding.

It's golden arches and fountain making her almost watery-eyed at the sight, a clash of colour and class, and frankly, a bit tacky. Stepping out of the car, she was quickly helped with her luggage, as she waved Michele away, the man throwing her a kiss, before driving speedily off, less mindful of the traffic when she'd left the car.

"Miss Hooper, we will take your luggage to your room – go to reception for your room key," said a young attendee with a less heavy accent, lugging her bags away, while she strode off to the front desk.

She was given the number of her room and a plastic key card. It had a double bed, and apparently, according to the toothy receptionist was one of their _finest _rooms. Molly wondered if it was a part of the _package_, her previous reservation had been a simple room, as she hadn't really thought they'd be _sharing_. She really hadn't thought through all of the details, though it was too late when she'd gotten into the lift. _Oh God, oh God, oh God._ Her hands physically trembled, her teeth biting harshly into her lower lip, while she bounced on her feet, waiting for the number to turn to seven, the other passengers ignoring her. Finally, the lift stopped at her floor, and she almost ran out, slowing herself down when she saw people staring, and with a furious blush she sought out room 127. _This is it, this is it, and it's now or never…_ Her hand was poised to enter the key card, but she pursed her lips instead, eyeing the slot with difficulty – _Do not enter_ – was hanging on the door handle.

This didn't mean her, but she almost obeyed, wanting more than anything to possibly head downstairs to eat, and perhaps do some sightseeing, instead of just getting it over with. _Just do it_ – she popped the card in, slid the door handle down and opened the door.

It was a beautiful room, less flamboyant than the ground floor, but still elegant. She drew for breath, eyeing the spacious room, which certainly didn't fit the profile she expected. This was a _four stars room_ with its sitting area, large flat-screen telly, large double bed, fresh flowers, and everything that spoke volumes about the price.

Molly wondered bitterly if it was the value of _6000 pounds_, her frown dropping the second she heard sounds of water running – a shower in fact – and she found her eyes widen – he was there.

_Of course he'd be there! _She mentally slapped herself, trying to make herself calm down, immediately pacing, and wondering if it would be rude to pop in to check – but before she'd even managed to collect her thoughts – a man strode out of the bath, a towel barely hanging around his waist.

Dark hair was plastered against his forehead, one large slender hand sliding hair away from his steely blue gaze, as water slid down his pale torso, the towel still arguing against his muscled frame.

Molly's jaw dropped, her brown eyes taking in the man who stood dripping wet in front of her, not even a tad bit bashful_ or_ ashamed.

She went from disbelief to downright anger, her cheeks turning crimson, as she ignored the fact that he was scarcely wearing anything, because he was certainly not the man she was expecting, "Sherlock!" she cried out.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Thank you for the reviews! Everyone loves crack obviously. Let the sillyness continue!

* * *

Whenever she left for a holiday, certain aspects about her daily life had to be considered, like for example where Toby would be while she was gone. Regularly she'd leave him with her neighbour. A few words would be shared, and possibly even a note, but usually that wasn't needed. However, when Molly had to leave St Bart's a list would be made preparing the substitute. Few would in general cope with her job, which was of course being a pathologist, but also handling Sherlock Holmes.

Select few did it with the utmost ease that she seemed to give off, which was why she was normally the only one who did, but it wasn't just a list, in fact it was a file. Upon this were a couple of things, warnings for Stephenson her substitute – _don't let him antagonise you – don't let him get everything he wants_ – _and most importantly don't let him get bored._ And she'd always receive a myriad of texts, phone calls pressing her to return, periodically from Stephenson or Sherlock himself, before her flight had even taken off. This time, her phone had been eerily silent, and Molly assumed that perhaps Sherlock had matured, evolved in some way or the other, but as he stood in her hotel room wearing only a towel, she concluded that he probably hadn't.

"Did you follow me here?" she said blinking rapidly up at the man, trying to understand what the hell was going on.

She was used to him mucking about, doing ridiculous things, but those were stories she heard from others, not something she was at first hand to see. Lately he'd even been easier, more pleasant to be with really, and she was glad of it. After all it helped that she had become more certain of herself, letting him know she was very aware when he manipulated her, but –_ this _– was a whole new level of madness.

He raised a brow at her, while she crossed her arms, her mind positively reeling, as the _metaphorical_ towel dropped, "Oh my God, you're – _you're_ Ian?" she said, her arms falling to her sides, as she gaped at him.

Sherlock moved past her, heading towards a large black suitcase positioned in front of the bed, "I thought our emails were obvious."

"Our? _Our?"_ she said with a squeak, her ire rising, and her disbelief beyond anything she'd ever had. He'd done a great deal of things that had infuriated her through the years, but this was certainly new, this wasn't nicking things from the lab or trying to get her to stay late, "But –but-,"

He put the bag on the bed, unzipping it, one hand firmly positioned at his towel, while the other took out clothes, "You will get your money back. No, need to be so shocked." His brows furrowed at her, while he held the clothes in his hand, "Now - do you mind?"

She gaped at him, shaking her head a bit while she tried to understand what he meant, when he gestured with clothes still in his hand at his waist. Moving her eyes to fix themselves on his face instead, she said rather flushed, "Yes, I do mind!"

Obviously he wanted to change, but she wasn't leaving until she got a thorough explanation, even if he was bloody distracting her by dripping all over the place!

He positioned himself rather too close for her liking; instead of taking a step back she stood her ground, looking up at him, becoming even more aware of their height difference.

He tutted loudly, causing her to frown in return, before he began with a roll of his eyes, "About six months ago I had a case that required a great deal of cunning from my side, and for once, without the assistance of John, or else _this_ wouldn't have happened."

"This?" she said snorting.

"Yes – some male_ escorts_ were being threatened, and they contacted me to find the culprit, at which I made a profile to lure the man in. When the case was done I kept it, thinking it might become useful in the future."

He sounded rather angry, which made her even more confused, "Then you contacted me."

"Me? I didn't-'

"No, you unwittingly contacted my fake profile."

She swallowed, redness crawling into her cheeks, "But why would you-," she said, avoiding his eye, before stepping away from him. Molly had written a great deal of silly things in that email, quite a lot in fact, and at that stage it had been presented to a stranger, but obviously not – "But - _why_ would you say yes?" she said looking up at him.

He had the oddest of expressions on his face, something she'd never really seen before, "Rather obvious, don't you think?" he said softly, a wry smile at his lips, and her shoulders dropped at that.

"It's a case then?" she said with a sigh, hand pressed at her forehead, soon settling down at the settee with all intention of staying there for the remainder of her holiday, which was certainly not resembling the romantic trip she'd imagined (not that being with an escort would have really been romantic, she supposed, but at least better than with _Sherlock_).

He was eerily silent, clearing his throat saying, "Obviously." The expression she was all-to used with appeared, "Now-,"

"Not interested," she said standing up from the settee, bringing her purse with her, "Just send the money into my account and…get your own room. I'm going to the bar and when I get back I don't want you here."

She walked past him, not allowing him to get a word edgewise, as she wasn't keen on listening to whatever had made him ruin her, _well_, not so solid plan. Molly had learned her lesson. Apparently this was what Mary had warned her about, and as she stepped out of the room it was with a heavy heart. Years ago, this would have been exactly what she'd dreamt about – _be careful of what you wish for._

* * *

The bartender had handed her the yellow drink with bits of fruit wordlessly. It was their strongest drink, and the one she'd requested, but it tasted more of mango than anything. She hoped it was one that crept up on one, as she'd rather not feel the sting too keenly.

Everything was a right old mess.

Not only did she not have a_ date_ to speak of, now she'd have to contend with having Sherlock in Rome as well, and if that wasn't something to drink over she didn't know what to think. He'd after all read that stupid email, digesting every word, and using her chance – her little beacon of hope – for a case.

It was _just_ bloody like him, she thought bitterly, wondering if she should just pack her things and get back to London on the next flight. She didn't know if she could cope through an entire wedding without _some_ mental backup, despite friends being present, but they'd all be constantly torn about her _suddenly_ being single.

After all everyone had been surprised that she had a boyfriend again to begin with, "The longest relationship you've actually had is – _well _– with Sherlock Holmes," Meena had said to her recently.

Didn't she just feel _super_?

At least the money would be returned, as he was at least a man of his word (sometimes), but she wondered why he'd asked for it to begin with.

Why he'd not just told her about the case instead of stringing her along, letting her believe she was corresponding with an actual human being?

There was no need for any charade. She'd even started to believe he'd gotten long since past that whole bit, but obviously she was in the wrong.

Molly took a long sip of her drink, emptying the contents and soon nibbling on the fruit, before giving the bartender a mournful look, "Another?" he said with a smile, and she nodded back in return.

With another fresh drink in her hand, she mulled over that particular excursion on the Internet when she'd found the blasted profile. Of all the profiles she'd pick, she'd gone and chosen _his_. If there existed such a thing as faith or Gods, they were all bloody laughing at her.

* * *

"Marcus – his name is Marcus – what do you think Toby?" she asked her cat that lounged on the other end of the sofa, softly meowing in return, "Obviously not, then – _oh_ – Caesar – must be some Roman theme-," she giggled frightfully at that, "I _am_ going to Italy after all, well, let's write to him, and if there's no quick reply -," she took a quick swig of her wine, - "I am going stag – never mind the lot of them or _Ian_."

Perhaps it was a sad sight for some, if they could see her, decked out in just a pair of large pants and a pink cardigan with her glasses perched on her nose, talking loudly to her cat, but she didn't care _three glasses of wine_ of what anyone else thought.

_Hi Caesar, _

_I'm Molly Hooper. I work as a pathologist in London and am in desperate need of an escort to a wedding. The wedding is on the _– she quickly deleted that, "No – that's horrible – maybe –," she pressed a finger on her chin thoughtfully, before she proceeded to type.

_Dear Caesar, _

_Honestly I've never done this before in my life, but I've become desperate. I know that any sane person would ask a friend or even possibly their family, but I haven't got loads of that really. _

_My ex-fiancé is getting married and I am happy for him, but everyone thinks that if I go alone to this wedding that I want him back. That I'm not over him, but I don't think I was ever under him. _

_I don't mean like that, but that I wasn't really in love. _

_Tom came into my life when I needed him the most, and he was a solid rock for me those two years. He was absolutely lovely, just really nice, but obviously I don't like nice. And I don't want to bring someone who might think that things could actually happen between us. _

_I'm done with all of that. _

_There's really no point until I am properly over someone else. This one person is someone who I go from absolutely adoring to absolutely hating, and surprisingly in the span of some few seconds. He's a complete prat to tell you the truth, but I haven't gotten to the point where I am ready to let him go. _

_And right now I just really want to be saved. _

_I'm always the one helping, doing the right thing and just being there for everyone else. That's what Tom wants when I show up at the wedding, and for once it would be lovely…Actually it would be amazing if there were just one person who'd be there for me, just this once. _

_Is it wrong to want to be saved? _

_I'm just a bit done with rescuing, and I know that if this request of just being there with me for this wedding is odd, then you can just ignore this. _

_Molly._

* * *

After three drinks she inelegantly walked out of the hotel bar, readying herself in front of the lifts, only to hear her name cried out in the distance. Molly whipped around colliding into a lanky frame, "Tom!" she said wide-eyed, staring up at her cheerful ex, who looked widely different from how she'd last seen him.

He didn't have curly hair anymore, having it straightened instead, and wore an impeccable dark blue suit –a bronze goddess wearing a dress of a similar shade hanging on his arm with a great set of white teeth, "Oh my God – I thought I was early-," Molly said, her smile so strained, her cheeks physically hurt.

"Yeah, well, we needed to check out the place first, some of the others have arrived already, so we thought we'd have an impromptu lunch here – wait – gosh -," Tom chuckled, shaking his head, "Sorry – god – I'm such an idiot – blathering on – Molly – this is _Polly _-," the woman's startling sparkly smile lit even more up, as she shook Molly's hand.

"He's told me so much about you, it's really nice to finally meet you – it's your fault, after all that we're together. If you hadn't dumped him he'd never have come to Italy in the first place," said Polly who smiled at Tom who shared the same vapid expression.

Molly pursed her lips slightly, wondering if it was an actual compliment or not, but she was glad that they hadn't – "Where's Ian, then? We've both been dying to meet him-," _oh bloody hell… _

"Oh – umm -," her eyes went to the lift longingly, but she directed her attention to the couple in front of her instead, "- the thing is – he's actually-," her cheeks were heating up, but it was now or never…

"Molly!"

She froze on the spot, even more so when a sturdy arm slipped around her waist, her eyes shutting at the contact, before she reopened her eyes to see Tom's utterly bewildered face – "Sherlock? Sherlock Holmes?" he said looking utterly flabbergasted.

_Oh brilliant._

His face was one of the reasons she'd wanted to send Sherlock off in the first place, but obviously he really wanted to cock up everything. Of course he wouldn't listen to her, when she needed him to listen the most!

– "The _boyfriend_, yes," Sherlock said smirking, "I heard you say something about lunch? We'd be delighted to come, but I have to steal her away for just one second." She hated it when he went all _common-folk_, pretending he was an actual human being, all smiley-faced and charming, "Do you mind?"

"Of course not! We'll see you two in about an hour, then?" said Tom grinning at them, "Honestly, I always thought you two…" he faltered for a second, pink appearing in his cheeks, " – well – we'll see you."

Him and Polly moved off with Polly whispering things into Tom's ear, looking not-too happy anymore.

Molly honestly shared the feelings as she dislodged herself from Sherlock's arm, "I told you to leave, not to invite yourself to lunch!" she said not even disguising her annoyance with the man.

His blue-green eyes narrowed at her at once, "The wedding is a part of the case," he whispered.

"Oh," she said exasperated, "Why couldn't you just have told me?"

"You told me _not_ to tell you if I recall correctly?" he said with a raised eyebrow, as she huffed in return, striding off to the lifts with him hot at her heels.

Crossing her arms, she said out of the corner of her mouth, "I don't want you to ruin his wedding." He was obviously going to go with her upstairs, and whatever she said against it wouldn't help.

"I am not here to ruin his wedding."

"No, obviously you're here to ruin everything for _me_ instead," she snapped as the lifts doors opened, entering with him quickly following her.

"Naturally," he said, as the doors closed on them.

She fixed a beady eye on him, taking in the pleased smile plastered on his face, and his hands held behind his back. He was in one of his suits with a white shirt of course, looking flawless as always to her utter grief, "Not funny, Sherlock," she said, a giggle escaping her lips despite herself. Hurriedly she pressed the number seven, "But obviously I'm not going to get rid of you so easily, am I?"

"Nope."

She didn't want to give the impression she was at all happy with him being there, since she _wasn't_, but she suspected the drinks made everything a bit funnier than usual. And she really needed a laugh, even if it was at the expense of herself, since John Watson had gone through worse – his blog was daily proof.

"Okay, then – we're going to have to set some rules," she said after some few seconds of silence.

He looked utterly lost at that, blinking rapidly at her, "Rules?" he said disgruntled.

She scoffed, "Of course we're going to have rules – you hate parties and gatherings and weddings in general – so please – just _behave_."

He opened his mouth, closing it, before he said, "Oh, well, that shouldn't be too difficult."

Molly giggled, "That's not a part of the rules Sherlock – that's how other people behave normally."

"Sounds dull," he said, but she swore she saw him smiling.

It was unnerving seeing him so pleased. Obviously the case that had landed into his lap was amazing, or he wouldn't have bothered to come this far for it.

Not that _any_ of it made her feel easy whatsoever.

* * *

He had gotten several emails through that particular profile, most of which he deleted immediately, not seeing the point of accumulating a bunch of requests that would make John's eyebrows disappear into his hairline, but Sherlock had been absolutely at a loss when he'd seen hers.

He read the email so many times he lost count.

In the end, he couldn't stop himself – he replied –

_Molly, _

_When is the wedding? I'd be delighted to escort you. _

_Caesar_


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **I like how this took me an age, which it shouldn't have at all, but that's because of 'personal' stuff. All is well-ish, so hopefully more frequently updated from now on.

* * *

He was obviously not going to get his own room, nor did it ever seem like he intended to, opening their shared room easily with his own key card, while she grimaced at him. 'Caesar' – frankly, only one man would opt to use the name of a Roman Emperor, and it was the man in front of her, willing to be_ Ian_.

She should have been suspicious with the ease the man spoke with in their emails, encouraging her deceit entirely, as_ he'd_ lured her in with a fake picture and a nice profile. Now she'd landed herself in, well – there was no _arm landing_, since the man wasn't exactly huge on romance, except in playing besotted. Proved easily by the way he'd duped that woman Janine (poor woman) or manipulated people in general, her included.

Perhaps this was why he'd been very nice to her lately, bringing her coffee, taking time to talk to her more, and actually not being a pain in the arse, because he was readying her for _this._ For some time she'd thought most of his behaviour had been rather sincere, of course, maybe he'd just turned up the acting a notch, or she just couldn't read him anymore.

"I'm not sleeping on the sofa," she said quickly, walking past him the minute the door was open, eyeing the bed firmly, tossing him a look.

Molly was too used to him throwing her out of her own bed, and she wasn't having it now. Surprisingly enough he didn't argue, just giving a silent nod, as he shut the door to the hotel room. She readied herself, knowing he'd explain in full-length of what his case was about, showcasing his usual brilliance and importance, but was surprised when she sat down on the end of the bed - by his silence.

Sherlock had brought up his camera phone, peering at it with furrowed brows, and looking if not rather agitated.

"Aren't you-," she started.

"On a need to know basis-," he said, not even looking at her or letting her finish her sentence. Clearly something was bothering him, and her nerves rose.

"It isn't serious…is it?" she said slowly, trying to gauge his reaction, though he turned his back to her, one hand stuffed in his pocket, while his phone was pressed to his ear.

"Hello _brother_," he said ignoring her.

Molly glared at the back of his head, wondering why he'd reverted to his old behaviour, and almost dropped down on the bed with a groan, until she fetched her own phone disappearing into the bathroom.

"I'll leave that to your deductions," he said in the distance, while she locked the door behind her.

In her current situation she knew one person who'd understand, and who'd most likely come with encouraging words about how this wasn't the worst situation in the world. And that there was in fact a bright side in having the one you were hopelessly in love with, as your date to your ex-fiancé's wedding (coincidentally the one your ex-fiancé suspected you were hopelessly in love with in the first place). Molly snorted in disbelief over her own thoughts, quickly pressing at her screen, "Hello…Mary?"

* * *

This was why he didn't do romance.

Obviously he had been wrong, something he rarely conceded to, but under the circumstance - seeing her absolutely horrified face certainly underlined her complete objection to his appearance, unlike his own personal hope. John had been right, and frankly it pissed him off. With one deft turn, not letting her read his expression of mild confusion; he rang the only man he knew would know what to do.

"Hello _brother_."

He heard the smug laughter on the other end, "Went wrong, didn't it?" said John after some few seconds.

"I'll leave that to your deductions," he said, instantly relieved when he heard the bathroom door lock, knowing she was most likely doing the same, but with Mary whom she'd grown very fond of.

"Right, so that bad then? What did you do?"

He turned his head towards the bathroom, hearing Molly's muted voice behind the door, which turned shrill in some instances, and made his own insides crawl. She was certainly unhappy, and he was the source of that unhappiness, "I didn't do anything…Molly assumed I was here for a case."

"And you told you her you weren't, right?"

Sherlock pressed his lips together, frowning, hearing John's sigh, "I told you it would have been better if you'd just told her while you both were still in London, instead of being bloody romantic!" John hissed.

"This is_ not_ my idea of romance, John."

"Of course it isn't! Your idea of romance is tricking the woman you love apparently! I can't believe I let you talk me into this!"

He felt the immediate pang in his chest, like he often did these days regarding Molly Hopper. Since he'd not managed to say, let alone think of the word love, which John so casually threw out every time they spoke about the pathologist. Sherlock did feel something, something undeniable, and something that he knew he'd felt for a long time, but kept distancing himself from for years. After all, she'd gotten engaged, and he'd plainly assumed that she was over him, except the email proved to him that she wasn't.

"John - may I remind you that your involvement was strictly shaking your head in disapproval-," he said smirking.

"Not like you let me get a word edgewise-,"

Sherlock snorted, looking down at the floor for a few seconds, " – Now – will you help me?"

"With what exactly? I think it's fairly obvious what you're going to do now isn't it?"

Sherlock blinked, his mouth pursed, soon hearing John release a sigh on the other end, "You have no idea what you're going to do – do you?"

"Umm…_well_-,"

* * *

"Just tell him to bugger off!" said Mary who'd gotten into a right old shock about _Ian_. Molly had tried to word it in a way that didn't make it obvious she was furious, but Mary saw through her bouts of false laughter very easily.

"I can't – Tom thinks I lied about 'Ian', and now he thinks that Ian is Sherlock - so sending him off might give off the wrong idea."

"You could just tell him the truth?"

"Oh, yes, I hired a prostitute for your wedding – turns out the prostitute was Sherlock…I don't think that's going to go over really well-,"

"It might," said Mary who began to downright laugh, with Molly joining her, "Oh God – that first meeting must have been awful?"

"Wasn't helped with Polly being-,"

"She's a bitch?"

"No-," said Molly with wide eyes, "She just, you know - how some people can be – just a tad bit-,"

"Bitchy, yeah, I know – trust me, you're enemy number one to her – ex-fiancé at a wedding – not good."

"I'd rather have her cross, than Sherlock here."

"You might never know, it could turn out alright – let him watch some youtube videos on how to be boyfriend, and he'll probably manage to do something."

* * *

"Maybe you should – I don't know - mental idea here - tell her the truth? That you wanted to go with her? Like I told you to do all bloody along – for God's sakes it's not that difficult, is it?"

"It does sound simple enough, except-,"

"Except _what_?

"Well I did have a backup-plan if the first one backfired…"

"A backup-plan?"

"Yes, amazingly enough I do, John."

"Then why the hell did you phone me up?"

"I wanted out from discussing the case with Molly."

"What case?"

"The one Molly thinks I'm working on – do pay attention -,"

"Right – I suppose she's in the loo or something now?"

"Yes, so, pointless if we keep this up. I am after all going to prove to her that I am _boyfriend material_."

John guffawed on the other end, "Sorry did you _actually_ just say that – 'boyfriend material'?"

He scoffed, "Is that so unbelievable?"

"Yes! If she finds out that you lied to her-,"

"She won't-,"

"But if-,"

"She'll fall madly into my arms – yes – _yes_ I know-,"

"No, she won't! Women don't like that men lie."

"Yet you do quite often – and you're a married – ah, she's returning – pretend like nothing when Mary speaks to you later."

"_What?"_ and with that he hung up, giving Molly who'd returned a brief smile, as he stuffed his camera phone away, intent on 'using' it frequently to make her think he was in fact onto something, before gradually picking it up less.

"So lunch?" he said all-too cheerily, while she frowned at him in return.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **(insert apology) (insert gracious thanks) (insert wink wink smiley face)

* * *

John snorted in disbelief over his phone. He wasn't really surprised Sherlock had hung up on him, though he really did need a laugh. Changing nappies constantly did take a bit out of him, despite his attempt at constantly soldering on.

"So…how much is he going to cock it up, then?" a familiar voice said, and he turned to see his wife leaning against the doorframe.

"A lot," he said chuckling, "But he'll learn – I _hope_."

She grinned at him, "Can't neglect our other child, I suppose. Speaking of which – she needs a bit of a change…" he tried not to frown, "- kidding…it's my turn."

* * *

"Don't – umm – talk too much," she'd said that about five times the last hour. There were supposed to be rules, but she didn't have the time to bother him about it.

Her nerves about lunch had certainly started to blossom, as the charade was apparently something she'd just have to live with, that and the fact that she wasn't going to learn much more about the case he was working on, if one ignored his short answer - "_Not related to the wedding."_

Molly didn't exactly see how he'd have enough time to pretend to be her boyfriend _and_ work on his case, but Sherlock had assured her_, "It's barely an eight."_

She neglected to point out that she felt it was rather silly of him to fly over to Italy for less than an eight, especially since he often let John fly ahead of him for some inane reason or the other, but she suspected that _babies _probably made that idea impossible. Not that she didn't think that John wouldn't love a brief high-adrenaline vacation considering dirty nappies and screaming children, but even he had his limit.

"Yes, I know," said Sherlock eyeing her in the lift, giving a weary sigh, obviously already tired of her constantly having to remind him of how to behave like a human being, but frankly, he did have the fantastic ability of deducing people to weeping messes.

In most cases she'd stand admiring in the safe distance, but in this particular party of people she'd rather not make too much of a public blunder. She'd already brought along the very factor to why Tom and her didn't really properly work out, more or less rubbing it under his nose, and so it was important they didn't really stand out. Of course she knew she'd not exactly chosen the best dress for the occasion, opting for a bright red, which Sherlock had briefly blinked at when she'd appeared from the bathroom.

It didn't feel right to be wearing trainers and her beige trousers for something that she suspected would be laden with people in extravagant clothing from the get-go, especially considering the fact that Sherlock's style of dress was immaculate. After all it wouldn't seem convincing if she opted for a t-shirt bought at the airport, since they were already a very unlikely pair.

"You look well, Molly," said Sherlock all of a sudden, forcing her to look at him, but he wasn't staring at her.

"Thank you?" she said baffled.

He was eyeing the solid elevator doors, until they were barred open and the pair of them were back on the ground floor, facing another of what she could only suspect would be an excruciating event from beginning to end.

It didn't exactly help that Sherlock seemed rather exceptionally cold even for him, stiff and unsure for some odd reason, though she understood that he hated social occasions, and regularly kept his distance if it was remotely possible, but she'd think he'd manage to play the part. All of this of course prompted her to do something rather mad.

For someone in a relationship it would have been absolutely normal, but_ actually_ holding Sherlock's hand was threading into rather dangerous waters. The second she did it, sliding hers into his, she wanted to pull back.

She could feel the visible tension in his hand and see the familiar arched brow of his. But instead of hunching down about it, she calmly walked out of the lift with him, her smaller hand enfolded in his.

Their relationship or well friendship or _well _– 'something' - didn't involve hugs or brief kisses on the cheek, so it was difficult for her not to feel rather hysterical on the inside. Molly almost felt like laughing at her bravery, despite the fact that kids at the age of thirteen probably did more than hold hands these days, but this was amazing – even for him.

She thought he'd wrench his hand away, at least, but he didn't. Quickly, before her mind started to overthink his willingness to the physical contact she reminded herself that he'd managed to pretend to be in a relationship a while back, so holding her hand shouldn't in fact be challenging for either of them. Despite her hand pushing out sweat, almost forcing her to wipe her hand on her dress, but she persisted, feeling her hand almost visibly throb in his very large one.

"Is this okay?" she said in a low voice, while they headed over to the portion of the hotel, which was the restaurant.

She knew it was a pointless question really. If he didn't approve he'd certainly back away quickly, but she didn't want to occupy his space more than necessary.

"It's fine," he said, and she was grateful to see the tension that had appeared in him earlier clear off, briefly taken aback when he cleared his throat and tangled their fingers together properly. They finally reached their table where people smiled at her, before several of their smiles dropped at the sight of him, their mouths turning into large gaping holes.

_Oh Christ._

* * *

Ideally he'd rather administrate himself a sedative than be _the celebrity_, which considering the astonished expressions on people's faces he was, and from the way Molly quickly pulled her hand hand from his, she certainly didn't want it to play out like this.

"Oh my God - are _you_ dating Sherlock Holmes?" said one woman, gaping like some red-lipped fish, exhibiting a lack of decorum, while she ogled Molly in disbelief.

_Single. Revealing deep cut dress. Apparently seeking attention from this venture, assuming it'll follow the traditional path of finding someone as a bridesmaid. Too easy,_ he thought.

Sherlock raised a brow, "Yes," he said coolly, unable to keep away the smirk at the sight of the woman's eyes turning downwards, her cheeks flushing, and he realised, "Did I say that out loud?" Several of the people at the table blinked up at him in bewilderment, though none of them seemed keen on blurting any outright remarks or hurtling anything in Molly's way, "Oh."

Slowly he turned to look at Molly's face, her expression was rather unreadable, as she was furiously biting at her lips, making the blood surge to them, like she would when she was thinking, but he caught the hint of amusement in her eyes. At least he assumed it was, since he often saw her give that same expression in his presence, when he'd done something funny. "Not good?" he questioned, trying to look a semblance of guilty, but she averted her eyes instead, leading them to a pair of vacant chairs at the long table.

Neither Tom nor his fiancé _Polly_ were present, which made it less likely for Molly to lash out towards his behaviour, at which John would have pointedly made him apologize (poorly). However, he was pleasantly surprised to find Molly chose a completely different tactic.

"Sorry, it's his kind of humour, Iris. Don't mind him," she said shrugging at their sitting companion, who turned out to be the offended woman in question.

"Didn't mean to be rude," said Iris with wide eyes, sending him a lopsided grin, "You're quite right…it's a bit of a tight-fitting dress, really – thanks for noticing. No one else has."

Sherlock blinked, "Thank you?" he said with furrowed brows.

"I've noticed!" said a man outraged at the table, face red, and his glass filled to the brim with white wine, "I've been-," Sherlock immediately ignored the conversation, eyeing the man, intending to give his negative comment on Iris pursuing him, when he felt a soft hand on his thigh, "Don't," whispered Molly, her brown eyes searching his, "She can-,"

"Oh shut up Peter – you fancy everything with legs," said Iris in response to the man's advances, and Sherlock was pleasantly surprised by the exchange.

"- take care of herself," he finished off, aware that Molly's hand was certainly lingering on his thigh, though she didn't seem to be aware it was still presently there, or at all embarrassed by her action.

"You might be able to know what people are planning, but it doesn't mean you know what they want," she said with a small smile, her hand disappearing from his thigh and his confidence evaporating. He had already done the opposite of good, not that he expected to excel in everything he put his head into ('_well'_), though he hardly expected to have already managed to insult someone – "And thank you," he heard her whisper, though her hand did not land on his thigh this time.

"What?" he said mildly caught off guard by Molly's sudden outburst.

She did that constantly, always putting him out of his comfort zone so to speak, constantly making him question himself. However, for once she seemed to be rather confused by his lack of understanding, "For coming to my defence… You didn't really need to and I didn't really expect-,"

"Why wouldn't I?" he said, slightly affronted, but before she could answer they were interrupted by the table jeering loudly.

The bride and groom had arrived.

* * *

Not very long ago, seconds in fact, if she was keeping score, she'd sworn that this entire thing wouldn't turn out so badly after all. All of those hopes dashed off the second Tom reared his not-curly head at their table, with his Polly dangling at his side again with her sparkly smile.

"Lovely to see you all!" said Polly, giving a tiny wave, swooping soon down to several at the table, giving them quick kisses on the cheeks, without leaving her lipstick on anyone's cheek, and consciously avoiding Molly's seat.

Not that Polly opted to give Sherlock a bear hug either, but Molly knew that Sherlock certainly noticed this action, and so did the others around the table.

"Having drinks already?" said Tom who'd settled in his chair instead of greeting everyone with hugs, a nervous sort of energy hovering over him, and Molly didn't need to be an consulting detective to figure out that the couple had just had a row. And she was rather certain she knew what about, considering the fact that Polly threw her a glare when she got seated, before putting on another dazzling smile.

People raised their glasses however, the instant the sound of cutlery hit glass and Molly was happy about the distraction. "Tom," said Marcus, his best mate bearing a huge grin, "I know this isn't the dinner before the wedding, and it's probably not the time for a speech either, but I'm glad to see you happy. Honestly, I've never seen you so happy-," she agreed – "Obviously you've chosen the right girl _this_ time-," people were staring at her – "To Tom and Moll – I mean Polly – _Polly_-," the laughter that came was loud, almost unbearable, and Molly kept her eyes fixed on her plate, not wanting to see if Polly herself was looking at her, but her eyes suddenly swung upwards when she felt a firm hand on her hands folded on her lap.

"We're supposed to be a couple, aren't we?" Sherlock murmured into her ear, causing her to stare at him, but she was rather glad he'd managed to see her discomfort.

If only he'd picked up on that years before, really, and she grinned, before she slowly slid out of his grip. Knowing him he was probably still on the edge that she'd touched his thigh without thinking, and she gave a slight nod in return.

Another tinkle of the glass happened.

This time it was Iris who slowly stood up and Molly clapped her hands together approvingly. She'd known her for years and considering how different the pair of them was in some ways, it was remarkable how they'd managed to stay as friends.

"I know I might not be one of the lads, but I think you can all thank me for this. If I hadn't introduced Molly to Tom none of this would have happened -," she felt like groaning – wondering where on earth Iris was going with this – " – since then she'd never dump him, and he'd never have met Polly. Everyone ended up with who they should have, and after all – _shag-a-lot_ Holmes might actually keep up with Molly for once-," Molly should never have worried about Sherlock cocking anything up really. Honestly, her friends did well enough on their own, " – but Tom – jokes aside – I do mean that - really I do – here's to the bride and groom!"

She wondered why her glass was still empty; honestly it should have been long since full and she searched the restaurant beseechingly for a waiter, but one more round of that doomed cutlery began, except from a completely different source, mainly the one sat besides her. Her eyes could not be any wider at the sight, recalling that very instant who'd done the same, except for a very different reason. A pair of eyes were fixed on her the very instant Sherlock's chair scraped against the floor, his expression the one of severity and she wanted nothing more than to force him to sit down. There was nothing he could really say that would in fact help the situation, since it would certainly only worsen the afternoon. But despite her wordless stare, he seemed to be rather confident in his abilities, "I don't know any of you."

It wasn't exactly a lie, "Neither am I good at speeches, but I will say one thing -," he looked pointedly at Iris, an unfamiliar gleam in his eyes, "I do keep up."

Of all things she thought he'd say – _that - _certainly wasn't it.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: **(you say "what?" i say "yes")

* * *

In any other circumstance, _any other, _perhaps even his fake funeral she'd rather have heard him pop out of his coffin saying that, than on her ex-fiancé's pre-marital lunch.

Whatever reaction he'd been expecting, the deafening silence that followed wasn't it, especially with the way he so smugly winked at them all. Despite this, his confidence didn't seem to deflate for a single second, for the mere hint of a knowing smirk played at his lips. Molly shut her eyes for a second, taking a deep breath, but watched soon in amazement at the laughter that thankfully came bursting forward, some even shouting, "Hear, hear!" She'd thought she'd be have to excuse herself from the table, before returning to London with a one-way-ticket.

Instead all of the sensation of doom that had loomed over her during the other's _speeches_ flickered away, and she was left laughing her self, almost not believing that he of all people had made a sex-joke. Him! Sherlock Holmes! Sherlock who got unbelievably awkward every time she brought up the word. The man who'd change the topic quicker than you could say 'sex', which was a word he seemed to constantly avoid if he had the chance. This very man who sat down again smoothly in his seat, luckily not divulging in _how_ he was keeping up, which she really wished no one would ask him about, but at least on that scale they were reasonable. She was quite certain that several of the women present would most likely corner him for explicit details if they could, especially considering the way he sat down so smoothly, giving off the air of sublime knowledge on 'sex' (maybe he'd borrowed John's laptop again).

Tom's mouth was half-open, a crinkle visible between his brows, before he carefully said, "Right, thank you…I think?" Obviously Tom once again thought Sherlock was pissed, and it seemed fairly logical. She was just glad she'd sobered up enough to not do something stupid like stab him with a fork, or act like a complete idiot herself. Somehow she could easily see in Tom's eyes that he'd noticed that very thing, which was perhaps why he bore a thin smile in the end, "It's lovely to have you all here though, speeches aside that is."

No one rose to the occasion anymore, conversation taking over hand, about some of the delights of Rome, others about how much they'd drunk, while she was wringing her hands in slight discomfort. Being ignored didn't turn out to be an option, though obviously – _ridiculed_ – was. Evidently Sherlock felt that should be done on their own terms, which was a blessing, despite the fact that she'd thought of them as a '_them'._

They weren't a couple after all, and she hastily reminded herself the importance of not forgetting that, or else she'd be sulking about in her flat some weeks after. She didn't want to revert into some hapless being about him. After all, she was too old, she'd been through too much to be dazzled by his crystal blue eyes or alluring dark curly hair – _no, don't…no_ – "I hope several of you are keen on joining me and Polly on a minor excursion tonight, since she knows the city better than most."

His fiancé gave him a playful slap of the arm, giggling at the compliment.

Lunch was one thing. But the idea of spending the rest of the day with everyone, bustling about Rome was certainly not a good idea, especially with Sherlock in tow.

"I'm afraid Molly and I will have to turn down that wonderful offer, Tom – we've already got plans," said Sherlock, almost looking sincere, which was remarkable even for him. She was just glad he'd somehow managed to remember Tom's name, which was usually an impossible feat even for him.

Quickly she nodded, taking hurried sips of her now full glass of wine, while she ignored the jealous glances of everyone else. They weren't the only ones who wanted an out from what she suspected would be a tourist-like tour.

"I've been here often enough to know that it is the city of_ love_," added Sherlock, who looked rather thoughtful.

"Oh?" said Tom, "Are you going to upstage us all, then?" his boyish grin large.

"Most likely," said Sherlock who was holding out his empty glass to the waiter who poured wine into it, "But I'd rather not tell Molly of my plans. It's supposed to be a_ secret _- after all."

'_What plans?'_ she wondered. Until another thought came pushing forward - Oh the case! _Of course_ the case! His hands were suddenly wrapped around his phone, sweeping his thumb against the screen, before he pocketed it, "Well – we could probably go the same way?" said Tom, turning towards Polly, "Couldn't we sweetie?"

Polly didn't look like she wanted to follow any other route or plan; neither did Molly see the point of Tom trying to coerce her, when it was supposedly a romantic evening for two. He was inviting himself, completely oblivious to the fact that someone might misread his intentions, and she could see everyone else's worried look.

For once, she actually pitied Polly, since she'd been in the similar place herself.

"It's the brides choice if she wants to change her already appointed plans for a brief whim of the moment," said Sherlock, directing his gaze toward Tom who still didn't catch on.

It was Polly's turn to speak – "If Sherlock has a better idea, I'd love to see it – after all – I grew up here," she said with a smile, which looked like a thinly veiled threat.

* * *

Molly was leaning against the hotel door for support, her face in her hands, before she strode away from the door, annoyance clear in every feature of her body. Of all things he hadn't thought that Tom would want to ingratiate himself into their plans. This wasn't supposed to be a competition, but obviously, in some aspects it was.

"Do you actually have a plan?" she asked him, her brows knitted together, "Or?" She was rather distracting in that colour and in that dress, not that she was aware of it, but he cleared his throat to give the impression he was thinking.

"Yes," he said giving her a quick smile, "Don't worry, Molly." He had a handful of contacts after all, and an extensive knowledge of her DVD collection, which surprisingly came in handy for the occasion. Not that she'd remotely understand what he was plotting, though he suspected that it would be much more entertaining now. She most likely still believed he was occupied with his _case_.

"You can just drop me off at the hotel, it'll be alright-," she said, " – I'll watch the telly or something. We've got a mini bar for a reason." Her nervous giggle appeared, the one that would usually brighten up her features, but he sensed that she wasn't glad about that particular plan, neither was he.

"Actually…I'm going to need your help," he said slowly, his hands stuffed in his pockets.

She looked rather pleased at the thought, instantly lighting up to his relief, "Oh, really?"

"I could have easily gone alone. I've done so before."

"I know…I just assumed I was a cover."

"No, you're not," he scoffed, "Anyone would recognise you as_ my _pathologist after all, if they have half a brain."

A pleasant flush appeared in her cheeks, "Your pathologist? That's a bit-," immediately she stopped talking, clearly regretting her frame of thought, which he hoped would return in due time, "That's nice…"

Instantly he occupied himself with his phone, giving a text to an old friend, hoping he would keep his promise, but he highly suspected he would.

"Are you hungry?" he asked her, after he put his phone away.

"Starving," she said with a grimace. He knew she'd barely touched her food during lunch, and he also knew that the moped would be outside the hotel in ten minutes.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: **You're still reading this? I'm astonished. Thank you.

* * *

"Our transport is waiting for us outside the hotel," he murmured to her, his finger pressed on the ground floor button, the doors closing on them in the otherwise empty lift.

Her fists were clenched, her expression rather more serious than it needed to be, but she felt rather excited on the prospect of bolting, whatever the case was. It seemed rather grim, if Sherlock's facial expression was anything to go on, he looked rather restless, constantly checking his watch.

They could be dealing with a simple domestic from all she knew, and she'd still rather do that, but she didn't entirely get why her changing was '_out of the question'_. Wearing something practical would have been better, since she could hardly run in her dress or her flats. Her clothes weren't exactly ones used for detecting anything, though she supposed that Sherlock didn't exactly dress practical either, constantly wandering about in shirts with buttons that almost seemed to long to pop off.

When the lift dinged for the ground floor, the doors bursting open - he grabbed her hand. Molly blanched at the contact of his hand with hers, wondering if her previous initiating would prompt more of this kind of behaviour in the future. But as he pulled her alongside him, she didn't think too hard about the unnecessary handholding, or the faint smell of his dark scented musk, as her adrenaline had kicked up a notch on the idea of _eloping_. His eyes swept over the reception, and she knew he was determining whether or not it was a good moment to make their escape.

"Molly, there's something I need to tell you-," he began, turning briefly toward her, his voice unexpectedly ragged, "I think you need to know that there isn't-," the almost boyish grin on his face dropped the second they'd crossed the threshold, swallowing fresh air, as Tom's voice shot out ahead of them -

"Oh, good! We wondered where you'd gone off to really. How about it, then? Ready to show us your Rome, Sherlock Holmes?"

* * *

Her stomach made a loud groaning noise, causing the others to snigger, while she crossed her arms squinting against the wavering gleams of sunlight. It was getting darker now, unsurprisingly. After all, they'd wandered for three hours and her feet were killing her, due to the humid air making her flats cling, biting into the skin of her feet. The _tourists_ had certainly cut their escape short, making whatever case Sherlock had intended to take forgotten, though he hardly needed to stay, after all he could make a rude escape, while she couldn't. Molly wished she was more rude, preferably that she'd told Tom to stuff it the second he'd popped unexpectedly upon them, since obviously Sherlock was about to tell her about the case, but all that was forgotten. Instead they were induced to attend Polly's almost sermon like utterances about architecture, removing all the magical aspects of Rome, despite all her bright smiles, "It was designed by Italian architect Nicola Salvi-," said Polly in a loud voice, gesturing to the fountain, while Molly heard Iris groan in the back of the crowd, "Legend has it that in 19 BC Roman soldiers-,"

"Isn't that interesting?" said Tom who was a constant commentator to whatever Polly said, to everyone's consternation. Even his best mate Marcus lost it at some point, mumbling about him "_getting shagged thoroughly"._ Sherlock's grand tour was a thing of the past, especially since he admitted that he didn't have one, which surprised her, though he was constantly on his phone for some reason. Obviously the case had to be dealt with somehow, though she hardly thought he could solve it all on his phone, but he did look rather aggravated. Not that anyone else looked excessively happy by the current situation, most of them half-asleep by the look of it. Several were planning on calling it a night, excusing themselves away for a drink or two, since there were several places they'd past already, where the scent of mouth-watering food wafted towards her, grimly reminding her that she still hadn't eaten.

"- leading into the city, which was named Aqua Virgo, or Virgin Waters-,"

She stared at the fountain, amazed by the sculptures and vaguely jealous of the people who were carefree surrounding it, but was startled when she felt a pull at her arm. Suddenly she became aware of Sherlock standing besides her, for he'd been keeping a irritating distance throughout the whole, most likely crawling into his mind palace for support during the whole affair, but here he was now, grabbing hold of her closed hand gently, before pricing it open.

In it he put a large coin, "You're supposed to make a wish," he whispered into her ear.

Gaping slightly at him, she clutched it in her hand, before throwing it into the fountain. She wasn't the only one of course, others did the same, but most of them were coupled up, though _technically _she was too. Though she hardly expected anything remotely magical to happen.

"What did you wish?" he asked.

Looking up at him, she was somehow surprised by the rather confident gleam in his eyes, like he knew what she wanted, and the instant she thought of telling him, despite it being everyone's wish the sound of a motor was heard.

People quickly jumped out of the way, gasping at the sight of moped driving through the crowd of people. On it a young man was sat quickly stopping short in front of them, with the engine still running.

"What's going on?" said Polly, clearly distraught by the interruption, before speaking in rapid Italian looking livid, but the young man ignored her, directing his attention to Sherlock who he handed his helmet to.

Before Molly knew it, her wish was very much granted.

* * *

When she'd told herself to avoid reading too much into the subsequent situation he'd put them both in, it was becoming more and more difficult. From _my pathologist _to secret getaways, it was all getting rather confusing, especially since he still hadn't gone off on a large tangent about what the case was about. She supposed an explanation would burst out of him the second they were eating, like he suggested, which again, was outside the norm for him, since he never ate during a case, yet she'd seen him eat his plate clean during lunch, so he shouldn't even consider her being hungry. And now, here they were on a light blue Vespa, "A friend owned me a favour," he half-shouted, while they drove through traffic, and she was gripping on to him for dear life.

Molly tried not to compare her current situation to one particular scene in one of her favourite movies, but it was futile really, it was already out there.

"We watched that movie together, didn't we? Roman Holiday?" she said, though she couldn't hear his answer properly, due to the helmet on her head.

Her flat being his bolthole had always come with some certain disadvantages, at least from his perspective, most certainly, since she'd forced him to view a countless amount of romantic comedies out of pure cheek when he'd braved her doorstep.

Roman Holiday was one of them, with Gregory Peck and Audrey Hepburn driving through Rome, which was frankly for her, some years back - the idea of romance.

It really was something to view the beautiful buildings, and stunning scenery, while pressed up against him (not that she tried to think _too _much about that) – people, cars, whizzing past them, as he snuck through traffic rather easily to the annoyance of some honking vehicles. There was something rather easy about it all, which it frankly shouldn't have been, and she yelped slightly, when he prompted her to, "Get a better hold of me!" Almost forcing her to dig her nails into his shirt, making her all too aware of the tightness of his shirt. She was practically clinging to him, which was certainly a step up from handholding. Again, he'd ridden on a motorbike with Mary and she daresay that Mary didn't care about that, neither did Sherlock.

When they finally did stop, her legs were the definition of wobbly, and she was half-afraid she'd have trouble to get off the vehicle, but Sherlock took hold of her waist and guided her off it. He'd clearly noticed she'd waste a huge amount of time doing it on her own, clearly, or so she told herself, but when he proceeded to remove the helmet from her head, she did stare up at him rather bewildered. Unlike her, he seemed rather unmoved by the whole ordeal; like this was something they did every single day – riding mopeds in the middle of Rome on a summer's day.

"Come," he said, holding both of their helmets in his hands, directing her attention to the restaurant they'd parked outside of.

She wondered briefly if he'd hold her hand, _if _he didn't have to hold the helmets, but she shook the thought away when they got to the restaurant. It was a rather small restaurant filled to the brim with people, though one rickety looking table was vacant – a small sign that said _riservato._ An old, stocky gentlemen appeared by them grinning broadly, and speaking a rapid amount of Italian, while taking hold of Sherlock's face, giving him swift kisses, which he grimaced slightly of, but the man seemed undeterred laughing. "You bring lady friend?" said the man, who spoke with a thick accent, "Good. Good. You have best table. Best table for the man who saved my life!"

Sherlock scoffed lightly at that, though Molly saw a glimpse of pride in his eyes, while she giggled lightly at the thought of _lady friend, _"Sit! Sit!"

Soon they settled down, and the helmets were taken care of by one of waiters who swooped in, before giving them wine, "I ordered for us, no point in wasting time," said Sherlock, as he waved the menus away.

Molly raised her brows, about to ask about the patron of the restaurant, though clearly Sherlock had other things on his mind, "Oh, right, so where are we going after this, then?" she asked.

Obviously this was just a tiny stop, before they'd get at it, so to speak.

"I thought of the gardens of the Villa Borghese – if you climb the steep hill behind Trastevere and the Gianicolo – there's a beautiful spot there, rather quiet…" he wasn't looking at her directly, his eyes were fixed elsewhere, "Since you've never been to Rome before -_ well_ – you were here when you were six with your father."

"You remember that?"

"Of course. I remember everything you say," he said slightly baffled, finally looking at her.

It was a claim she could easily argue against.

There were several things she always felt he just neglected to listen to, ignoring her entirely, especially something like this. This was her mouth shooting off without thought, knowing he probably wasn't bothered a second with his occasional feigned throaty sound of agreement. Often she'd compare him to one of the dummies they had lying around to show students what to do, giving the same wordless response.

"You do? Really…_everything_?" she said doubtfully, since there were certainly some things she'd said that she rather he forgot, immediately, if even possible. He said he could delete useless information after all – why wasn't her life considered useless information?

"Yes. Everything," he said seriously.

Maybe it was the way he looked at her, his almost serious blue eyed stare, or the way his hand rested on the table very close to hers, or perhaps the way he proceeded to look down on the table, almost as if he'd made a mistake, "Oh," she said in a small voice, "Tom's involved, isn't he? You're just trying to soften the blow. It's alright Sherlock, you can tell me. Whatever it is, I know you can fix it."

* * *

Progress, he thought he'd been making progress. Evidently he was inching further away from the actual goal, especially as Molly kept looking at him expectantly, as if there was in fact a case. He knew rather well that she wasn't deliberately trying to be obtuse, but that she probably didn't dare assume he entertained such a concept. Years had passed where he'd been rather blunt with her, or how John would say 'a complete dick', which he did say every time they'd exited St Bart's. Truthfully he was frightened…frightened that perhaps the reason she didn't think he entertained the idea was because she didn't do so anymore herself.

Checking her pulse hurriedly when he'd caught her hand earlier didn't tell him if she really did have feelings, it was chemistry, just bodily reactions to situations. None of it really said anything. Long ago he'd taken a fall, and now he was certainly taking a leap. Not of faith, but something of the similar variety, _hope_, the same she'd done years ago, "No, the case isn't about Tom," he said, taking a quick swallow from his glass of wine, before he quickly put it down again, looking at her still uncertain face.

"Then tell me – I can help, or at least I can try," she said with a small smile.

Like this was any other day, like any other visit to the lab.

"I know you can, Molly, but I didn't travel to Rome for a case."

"You didn't?"

"No."

"Okay…then why would you-," and without thinking for once, clearing his mind of all potential problems, from the fear he had - he kissed her.


End file.
